


Interrogation

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beating, Chains, Collars, Electrocution, Humiliation, Interrogation, Nudity, Other, Restraints, Strangulation, Torture, Urination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: Jim is taken in for questioning by Mycroft.Mycroft doesn't like getting no for an answer.





	1. Chapter 1

Jim doesn’t like to admit that he’s taken by surprise. But when the sleek, black car slides alongside him, when he’s making one of his extremely rare sorties from the flat - to buy ground coffee, of all things – he is momentarily taken aback. A moment enough for someone (male? female? all too fast) to open the door, make some sort of stabbing motion towards his midriff, and for Jim to immediately slump and be pulled quickly into the car.

He comes to in a typically bare, typically grey, featureless room. “Functional”, says his mind, as his senses start, one by one, to reload. He’s sitting at a table, on a functional orange plastic metal-legged office chair.

“Mr Moriarty”, says the man sitting across the table from him. Mycroft Holmes. Oh. Sherlock’s boring older brother. The Iceman; as frigid as poor little virginal Sherlock is ignorant.

“Mycroft Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure? No regal ashtrays to empty? No corgi shit to plackie bag up?”

Jim smirks.

“I imagine you think you are being amusing. Perhaps even provoking?” Mycroft smiles. “I am not my brother, Mr Moriarty. Whatever you feel you know about him bears no relation to me, at all, despite your puerile nicknames.”

“So, Iceman, why am I here?”

“You are here to be interrogated. To be kept off of the streets for a certain time. Because, well, because I wish it. And what I wish becomes – just so.”

Mycroft stresses the last two words, in exactly the way Jim pronounced them at the pool. Jim smiles again.

“Well, I have to say that I am totally underwhelmed by all this drama, IceIceBaby, but - thanks for the thought – sentiment is always so welcome, even when it’s tinged with…” Jim affects a huge yawn, “Sooo much excitement, really. No, really, you shouldn’t have.”

Mycroft studies him, his eyes totally dead. “Mr Moriarty. You really have no idea, no idea at all, with whom you are now dealing. As I said, you will be interrogated. I want to know what intentions you have in relation to my brother. Whatever other sordid little conspiracies you have underway are not my concern. If you refuse to cooperate, I will hurt you. The choice is yours.”

Jim leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest, and sniggers. “Bring it on. C’mon, IcePops, I’m just trembling here in my shoes. Oooh, I’m just soooo scared of the big scary nasty maaaan!”

Mycroft nods towards the camera over to their left. On cue, four very tall, very well built, men enter the room.

“Strip this - thing,” Mycroft sniffs, gesturing towards Jim. “Strip him. Hurt him. Bring him down to the cells.”

As Mycroft leaves the room, Jim continues sitting at the table, looking as nonchalant as if he was waiting for a latte at the local café.

His nonchalance doesn’t last for long. One of the men moves behind him, locking his arm around Jim’s neck and pulling him upwards. At the same time, another of the men produces a pair of vicious looking shears and, whilst the first man continues to hold Jim by his neck, brings the shears up through the clothing on his upper body. Jim’s jacket and shirt are cut away, whilst the third man moves in to grasp Jim’s silk designer tie, and twists it around and up until he’s pulled Jim up on to tiptoes and the tie is cutting painfully into his neck. Second man then uses the shears to cut quickly and efficiently through Jim's trousers and pants and, nodding to third man, who lifts Jim clean off the ground, swiftly removes his shoes and socks.

Jim is totally naked, suspended on tiptoe by his tie, and choking as third man jerks at it, laughing as Jim coughs and gasps. Fourth man, who so far has kept pretty out of it, moves forward and grasps Jim’s balls, firmly. Before Jim quite realises what’s happening, his balls are rolled and pinched, one, then the other, hard, and Jim cries out in pain.

“Shut it, fucker.” Jim has lost track of who’s doing what, and all he knows is that he’s being held up, spread out, vulnerable, and there is suddenly such pain in his testicles that all he can do is twist and groan and retch. One of the men has hit him, between the legs, with what appears to be a metal ruler. As Jim struggles, he’s hit again, and again, with the ruler, on his balls, on his cock, across his face, and across the bridge of his nose. The tie around his neck is tightened and tightened, until there’s no more pain, and no more anything – just a quick fade to grey.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim’s unconsciousness is only temporary. He comes to aware that he’s being taken or, more accurately, half-carried, along rather gloomy grey corridors lit sporadically by harsh neon lighting strips. The tie still feels too tight around his neck, but at least it’s no longer throttling him. They stop before a pair of lift doors. Jim’s bundled in and one of the men punches what he assumes is a code into the lift keypad. There are none of the normal lift buttons indicating floors, so it’s impossible to tell where he is in the building, but the motion of the lift indicates that they are descending. Into hell? Jim wonders wryly.

The corridor before them when the lift stops and the doors open is, if anything, even gloomier than the ones higher up in the building. Everything appears to be lined with grey, dully gleaming, brushed metal. Every twenty feet or so is a thick studded door, set with a small observation hatch at roughly eye level. All of the hatches are locked shut.

Jim can hear faint murmurs from behind one or two of the doors and, passing another, what might be a shout, but otherwise the corridor is eerily still and quiet.

They stop at a door and one of the men again punches numbers into a keypad, then also pulls back a thick heavy bolt positioned up towards the top of the door. Electronic locks and deadbolts? thinks Jim. They’re taking no chances, clearly.

The room is smaller than he would have thought, featureless, lined with the same dull grey metal. It’s lit by small spotlights, set high into the ceiling above them. Most ominously, a substantial metal chain is set into the opposite wall, about a foot from the ground, and at the end of it is a thick, heavy, brushed metal collar. Matching cuffs, linked by another, roughly six inch, length of chain, lie on the floor beside the collar.

Jim is pushed forward and forced down to a kneeling position, his arms pulled behind his back. His tie is removed, the collar locked around his neck, and the cuffs around his wrists, with startling efficiency. A metal bowl of water is slid beside him, and the door locked, and he is left alone.

Jim straightens up and sits back on his heels. The chain linking the cuffs feels cold and heavy against his bare buttocks, and the collar, although not particularly tight around his neck, emphasises his helplessness. When Jim imagined, as he did on occasion – a consulting criminal must always be prepared, at the very least, for the fact that someone may want to spirit them away for a spot of questioning – being, well, spirited away, he thought of someone like Mycroft Holmes, sitting across from him at a desk, questioning him. In a normal sort of room. And Jim taking centre stage, being uncooperative, and obnoxious, and needling, not being chained up like an animal in some dingy cellar and ignored.

Anger floods through him, and he’s tempted to kick the bowl of water away, just to make a noise, and a mess, and to vent his frustration, but the more lucid, sensible part of him reminds him that he has no way of knowing how long he’ll be locked in here, or how often he’ll be watered and/or fed. But the anger, the rage, flares up again when he realises that the only way he’ll be able to drink is by kneeling down over the bowl and slurping at it like an animal, so then he does kick it, making a satisfyingly loud clang! and spreading water all over the floor of the little cell.

Take that, fuckers, he thinks, hoping for shouts and footsteps and doors bursting open, and something. But it remains quiet and eventually he realises that no-one is coming to investigate. He manages to manoeuvre himself on to his side, given enough length by the collar chain to lie down, even if his arms are twisted awkwardly behind him, and he waits.

-O-

Mycroft leans back into his comfortable leather chair, his feet propped up on the solid mahogany desk, and sips at his scotch. The surveillance camera in Jim’s cell shows Jim apparently asleep, on his side with his knees drawn up in a loose foetal position.

“Shall we wake him, Sir? Slap him a bit for the water?”

“No. Leave him as he is for the time being. Don’t feed him, don’t water him, don’t let him use the lavatory. If our guest is going to behave like an ignorant boor, treat him like one. Ignore the boor until he bores.” Mycroft smiles faintly at his wordplay. “With what I have planned for Mr Moriarty, we’ll soon have him thinking that being bored is the most wonderful thing that could possibly happen to him.”


End file.
